


Kings and Queens of Spring

by Maybethings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Innuendo, Multi, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Qunari, Qunlat, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, making amends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trio of ficlets inspired by rather a lot of DAI followers with Photoshop flower crowns. The Inquisitor gives the object of their affections a blooming gift (and once, a request for their forgiveness).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. when iron posts bloom (m!Adaar/Cassandra)

"Really, Inquisitor?" Cassandra says dryly, though her voice is as warm as the forge fire.

Halim hums tunelessly in response, eyes nearly crossing as he twists weaves into other green. “It’s spring outside, my lady.” A twist, a tweak, and he holds up a completed wreath in his wide hands, dotted with tiny, just-opened blooms of white and pink. It will join the other four he has already made, and the rest of the blooms hung up on walls all around Skyhold. There’s green under his fingernails and a smear of light dust on his cheek. He smells of sweetness and green, even from ten paces away. "Everyone could use some flowers."

She scoffs. “Not I.”

"No?" He looks at the sprays of blossoms left over from his work. "I think you would look lovely with them. Lovelier."

"I would look ridiculous, more likely."

"Well, maybe. But I promise not to laugh at you. May I?" He pats the empty chair next to him. Her eyes narrow. She takes the seat, but cautiously, as if the chair is scorching iron. He counts out a good handful of blooms, speaking under his breath, then begins to work them into her hair, under and around the braid that crowns her head.

He’s—gentle. That’s the word. The hands that grips a sword and shield so firmly brush lightly against her bare skin with something akin to reverence, broad fingers warm points against her skull as he builds the crown of flowers. She begins to relax, if only a little. The smiths must be stoking the fires higher than usual, but the Inquisitor doesn’t seem to be breaking a sweat.

"I would not expect a Qunari to be so well-versed with plants," she ventures.

"There’s an…old saying," the Inquisitor murmurs, voice distant and soft as he works. " _Even the Beresaad’s nose smells spring._  And I was raised by an ex-herbalist. Hold still?” Halim pins another flower behind her ear. “She lived and breathed for the plants in her garden. Wasn’t that great with other people, though.”

"You were fond of her."

"Of course." He says this as if it were natural as breathing, as if no parent has ever done anything less than love a child with every fibre of their heart. "She said she loved me perhaps…perhaps once or twice, in my life. But I knew. It was in the way she taught me about her herbs, and guided my hand around our crops. I knew she loved my father in the way she seasoned the food and patched his clothes." A pause, as he picked up another flower and scrutinised it left and right. "Maybe that’s why I also find it…difficult to say things out loud. I am like her. Doing things for people, that’s much easier. There, we’re done." He steps back, and Cassandra thinks he’s holding back a smile. "Want a looking-glass?"

The nearby window does well enough. Her breath catches. Pink blooms peep from behind her ears and little purple ones hug her temples, and a spray of snowy white blossoms ring her entire head. It looks—it looks—

It looks absolutely natural. It looks like it  _belongs_.

"Camellias for excellence," he volunteers. "Glory-of-the-snow for endurance. Snowdrops for hope. Plum blossom—" He coughs, suddenly shy. "—for long-living beauty."

"You are quite the flatterer, Inquisitor."

"I am simply honest. You look more beautiful than ever, Lady Seeker." There is nothing but pure honesty shining out of those eyes, no space for disbelief or deceit. He looks at her like she’s the most beautiful creature imaginable, glorious and divine, and what can you say in the face of all that?

"Thank you," she says, all that she can manage.

“ _Ebala maraas,”_ he chuckles. “I should go put these up.”

"Wait." Cassandra looks down at the worktable. "You still have some left over, and…I am not unskilled with these things."

"You are?"

"You doubt?"

He smiles and it’s like the sun has redoubled its efforts. “Never, my lady.”

No man has ever suited a crown of double-plaited little snowdrops more. When the two join the others in decorating the keep, crowned with blossoms and immune to the odd looks, it’s like the warmth of the sun has reached a little further into the chilled corners of Skyhold. Spring has arrived, at last.


	2. she cannot speak in flowers (f!Lavellan/Cassandra, unrequited)

Paloma doesn’t hold with flower crowns. Her fingers are not patient enough to puncture stem after bleeding stem without splitting them in half, tinting her nails green and the warmth of her palms turning it all into a wilted mess.

But her fingers are strong and quick enough to weave grass bracelets, tough blades turned into silk-smooth knots, elfroot and yarrow and comfrey woven in for strength and blessing and sometimes just the smell. She made them for her brother when he was a boy, and once—once  _only—_ when a shem trader asked, and twice for lovers. This time though—this is different.

She hopes her hands will not fail her where her tongue already has. It’s been weeks since she last even  _spoke_  to Cassandra.  _Since I was reminded how foolish my heart is_ , she thinks, and the blade of green she’s folding under another almost snaps from the quick pressure she exerts. The Anchor stings sharp and sudden on her palm and she digs her nails into it until the sensation fades.

 _Creators._ She bows her head. She’s almost done, but the light will be too low to work soon and she doesn’t like weaving by candlelight.  _Andruil, g_ _uide these hands, just as you surely placed this power in them._

—

"Seeker, the Inquisitor asked me to give this to you."

Cassandra turns from her training, a thin sheen of sweat already upon her skin. “And where is she now?”

"Out hunting, my lady. I heard her say that she would be gone for a few days, at least."

Cassandra makes a small, exasperated noise in her throat, but holds her hand out for the small package and bids the agent leave. Odd. The elf hasn’t even spoken to her since…since that extremely awkward occasion, not even for a sortie of any kind. Which is a shame—she is forceful and fierce and straightforward, and—if only she had noticed sooner, perhaps it would have been easier for the Inquisitor to move on. But things, as they are, have been done and cannot be undone. She unwraps the paper and her breath catches.

It is a dragon. Or rather, the head of one rises from a wide cuff of green-gold, jaws barely open, eyes staring straight ahead. The weave is tight with no gaps, a strange combination of hardy witherstalk and blood lotus. It smells of both, and royal elfroot and Nevarran resin, the stuff the Inquisitor uses on her bows, warm and heady and despite all these years,  _home_  and  _family_. Rolled around the cuff is a scrap of parchment.

_I am sorry. Words are still difficult. If I do not speak, it is because I fear my tongue will be mute, or it will spill poison. My anger is at myself alone. I cannot be upset at you. There is no right._

_~~I do not want to threaten~~  I’m running out of parchment. Please let this speak where I cannot.  ~~Kill~~  Kill the messenger if they dared open this._

_Paloma_

_—_

Exactly three days later Paloma Lavellan returns to Skyhold with a brace of rabbits, three rams, two great bears and a wyvern, its multicoloured hide dulled in death. She passes by the tavern and the training dummies, and Cassandra whaling the Void out of them.

"See—" Paloma clears her throat, tries again to remove the thorns from her voice. "Cassandra."

"Inquisitor." She raises one hand in salute, and it is ringed with a dragon green and gold. Paloma’s eyes open wide, for just a moment, and for the first time in weeks, she smiles honestly.

"Keep that one safe, will you? I don’t make those for just any old friend of mine."

"I gathered as much. It is—" She falters briefly. "It is beautifully made. Thank you."

The Inquisitor laughs. “Oh no. Thank  _you_. So.” She shakes a clod of mud off her boot. “We’re going to storm a nest of Red Templars tomorrow. Will you come?”


	3. petals on the pillow (f!Cadash/Iron Bull)

Vyera’s on her room balcony, soaking up the sun and getting some Hard in Hightown time in, when she hears the door open and footfalls fast approaching. She shuts the book and looks up. Bull’s standing behind her, arms folded behind his back, looking like a cat that had swallowed a whole mess of canaries.

“ _Kadan_?” she asks, a smile already tugging at one side of her mouth.

"Got you something, boss," he says, and drops it right on top of her head.

"Hey!! What in the—" she sputters, reaching for the unexpected addition tangled in her red hair. It’s soft. And sweet-smelling. She pulls it off, shaking out a bunch of stray leaves, and stares at the woven wreath of honeysuckle. "You, uh…you really made this?"

"I might have had some help. Skinner is surprisingly good at this thing."

“ _Very_  surprising.” Her laugh is short but heartfelt. “Just put some height on me and I’d be like a village girl dancin’ for a husband at the fairs.” 

"Dwarves don’t dance for their husbands?"

"Naaah. My mam said da saw her carrying three nugs under one arm and a mace in the other and pow, deal made." The last phrase is punctuated with fingers spread wide. "But it’s really beautiful, Bull. You sure know how to make a lady feel like a lady. Gotta repay the favour some time."

"Oh no. You’re not getting one of those on me."

She leans backwards, puts her hand on her hips. “And why not?”

"Not in that way. I mean, you  _have_  seen my head? It’s a pretty good head.” He gestures to the horns sprouting out of his brow at near right angles from his skull, grabbing all the attention. “Not exactly the best place to plop down those flower things, though.”

"Oh, I’ll think of  _something_ ,” Vyera replies warmly. “Didn’t scrabble out of the Carta and leave all my wits and such behind, you know.”

—

Bull sleeps like the dead. Until, that is, Vyera sneaks into his room with a wide ring of violets and he catches her wrist as she tries to sneak it onto his head. She can just about see his smile under the half-moon as he wags one finger in a scolding gesture before closing his good eye again.

Dropping it onto his head from the battlements doesn’t work. Scaling his back doesn’t work, although it makes Sera whoop loudly to see and Varric just shake with laughter. It’s a game, and they both enjoy it in their own way, but Vyera wants to win this one. Finally, she knows she’s got to call in the big guns; the biggest ones she’s got.

"Krem, call the Chargers together," she commands him. "Your boss’ girlfriend has a doozy of a job for you." And when he finds out what it is, he nearly puts his bottle of ale up his nose.

—

The Iron Bull wakes up to the sun in his eyes, the muffled husharush of noontime Skyhold noises in his ears and a rather dangerous grumble in his stomach. He stretches luxuriously and briefly considers seeing to the other, not-so-little-Bull before rising. His head feels…well, not heavy, but  _different_. Shaking doesn’t clear it but—wait, what’s that  _rustling_?

There are daisies all over the sheets, white and yellow and cream. There are daisies all over the everything. Bull, lips twitching, reaches slowly for his horns. A long, dense chain of flowers has been wound around both his horns from tip to tip, one loop falling loose over his eyebrows. More are twined along the cord of his eyepatch. His fingers are ringed with them, even the little half-nubs on his left hand. His  _fucking_   _toes—_

That’s when Josephine opens the door, Vyera trailing behind going pink in the face. She stares. He stares back. The Inquisitor looks like she’s going to die. Or explode. Josie’s mouth opens and closes precisely wordlessly three times, and then she gives a little sigh and shuts the door, firmly. Behind the thick wood he can hear the boss laughing her arse off, confound it all, and that’s Grim’s booming laughter somewhere below, he’d recognise it anywhere. By the time the laughter has died down to the occasional, near-hysterical whoops of breath, he’s put on his pants and is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting.

Vyera’s red from laughter when she tumbles through the door again, her eyes streaming. “Rise and shine, big guy.”

“ _Venak hol_ ,” he says with no little heat. “How did you even—”

"Dalish and Grim helped pick the flowers. Krem gave us pointers on putting the chain together. So did Stitches. Rocky made sure you got dead drunk on Orzammar rotgut last night, and then Skinner and me gussied you up. You look  _adorable_.” 

He plucks the daisies off his feet, where they’ve already wilted in sheer horror, but leaves the piece de resistance on his head, looking like some strange forest deity. “Damn right I do. Is there  _anywhere_ you didn’t put those things?”

"Well, your butthole. I think. But I  _definitely_  left your dick alone,” Vyera shrugs. “Daisies taste like crap.”


End file.
